


The Doctor in the Boot

by mugenmine



Series: NewSub!John Headspace [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Discipline, Dubious Consent, Gags, Kink Meme, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Rating: NC17, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Breathe, John,” Sherlock said.</p><p>John exhaled and closed his eyes and tried to resign himself for the tenth time to the fact that he had to endure it now, that this was out of his authority, and that this would only be over when Sherlock determined it so. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth slowly, until he gained control of his breath and his heart, and managed to settle again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Percygranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/gifts).



> This is the second story in the [NewSub!John Headspace](http://archiveofourown.org/series/16177) Series. It reads as a standalone, but events from the first story [A Study in Frustation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/351802) are referenced.

There was something incredibly surreal about listening to The Specials while tied up in the boot of a car. It wasn’t a scenario that John would have put together on his own, and after five minutes of being locked in the dark, he decided that it wasn’t one he ever wanted to experience again. The speakers embedded in the floor blasted  _Do the Dog_ at deafening levels, and  John cursed Sherlock for choosing the seminal Ska album as the soundtrack for his abduction.  He struggled onto his side, trying to shift his head as far away from the speakers as possible. The handcuffs cut into his wrists as he moved, locked on far too tight for comfort. But this really wasn’t about his comfort; being forced into the boot of a car usually wasn’t.

In that moment, John wished that he had taken Sherlock’s list of “things I’m not allowed to do to you” a bit more seriously when they had awkwardly broached the topic. John had come up with “no maiming.” Sherlock volunteered that death was off the table, and John decided that he might be up for trying anything once, before he just felt horribly self-conscious and wandered out to the kitchen to wait for his heart to stop racing. Unfortunately, they had left it at that. Right now, John really wished he had added “Kidnapping: not a team sport” to the list. 

_Who am I to say, to the IRA, to the UDA, soldier boy from the UK…_

John rubbed his face against the thin carpet and tried to work the gaffer tape from his mouth. There was no way he was going to free his wrists from the cuffs, and the moment the boot was opened he had to be able to speak; he had to be able to tell Sherlock enough now, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, that maybe they needed to have another discussion about what was acceptable when it came to… What was it that they were doing? He really wasn’t sure what  _this_ was. So he focused on the gaffer tape for a while, as Terry Hall sang about rebelling against the establishment, and the guitar rhythm stayed steady on the up-beat. John wondered if this strange association would ruin The Specials for him for life. 

  


* * *

_One hour ago:_

“Is there a reason why you’re ignoring me?” It had been ten minutes since John had asked Sherlock why they were here, and he was still waiting on a response. “You did wake me up for this.” 

Sherlock sighed and looked back at him. “I’m not ignoring you.”

After being awoken from a deep sleep at 2AM, hustled out of the flat, pushed into a taxi, and now standing for an hour in the rain across from a derelict wharf in Greenwich, John felt like he was owed an explanation for just why he’d been brought here. 

“So what’s this one about, then?” John asked. “Why are you being so secretive?”

“Cold case.” Sherlock said after a while. “December 17th, 1994. Dr. Adam Bates. Pathogen Biologist at the HPA. The last time his wife saw him alive was at 9:30 that morning. Bates was scheduled to speak at a symposium the next day at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, but he never made it to Heathrow. At 3:30 that night he was caught on  _that_ CCTV camera over there,” Sherlock pointed off into the darkness at a spot that John couldn’t make out, “being grabbed by three men and shoved into the boot of a black BMW.”

John frowned. He knew Sherlock had mentioned something about this to him, but right now, working on three hours of sleep, he couldn’t remember the details. Thoughts of being inside, being in bed, actually sleeping, were at the forefront of his mind. “Haven’t we talked about this before?”

“The next morning, Dr. Bates’ body was found sixty miles north of here, in the boot of a stripped down car. He’d been tortured for a prolonged period of time before his death.”

It started as a nagging feeling in the back of John’s mind, like trying to recall the punchline of a half-remembered joke or cramming for an exam and then forgetting all of the important bits. Sherlock was staring at him expectantly now, and John knew that this, whatever this was, was all on him. 

“What’s that got to do with-” John stopped, rooted to the spot as memory and sensation and context flooded back into his head. Weeks ago, half-conscious, and in the aftermath of their first sexual encounter, John had agreed that he would be up for another go. Sherlock had been vague about what it would entail, but the important part had been that the victim had been found bound and gagged in the boot of a car. “Fucking hell.” 

He turned to Sherlock. “Is this it? What, right now? We’re doing this right now? Out here?”

A flash of blinding white light startled him, and a pair of high beams like twin suns cut through the darkness. John shielded his eyes, disorientated by the piercing light. A black BMW slowed to a stop before them and the engines revved down. 

“Are you carrying your gun, John?” 

John nodded. It was a given. Sherlock had ordered him out to investigate a case in the dead of night, of course he was carrying his side arm. He flinched as Sherlock yanked up the back of his jacket and pulled the gun from its resting place against small of his back, and his only weapon disappeared into the depths of Sherlock’s coat pocket.

John took a step back, spots of bright light danced before his eyes, making it impossible to focus. “Wait, you can’t be serious.”

“There is no way I could completely overpower you when you’re in fight or flight mode,” Sherlock said, “and I’m sure that back in 1994, the good doctor didn’t get into that boot quietly.”

Two large shadows eclipsed the light and John backed up, instinct telling him to go for his gun. _Fuck._ If this was going to work, he would have to keep both of them in front of him at all times. If he was flanked then he was fucked. The two men stood taller than him, broader and stronger and built like assault and battery was something that they did on a daily basis. As John’s eyes began to adjust to the light, his attackers pulled into focus. They dressed like soldiers, or skinheads more like it, with their Doc Martins and black Army jackets.

The one on John’s left had an eight-pointed star tattooed across the back of his hand, the other one bore the same star across his throat, and those details gave John something to focus on. They were a bit too clean and put together to be part of the homeless network. No, Sherlock had hired these two for their skills. John looked to Sherlock, who seemed to be nonplussed by the events unfolding around him. 

“You hired backup?” John glared at Sherlock. “Seriously? You fucking hired backup for this?”

“They’re not going to hurt you, doctor.” Sherlock stood on the edge of the fray. “You just have to come with us, quietly or not. It’s up to you.”

Maybe if he had been warned that this might happen John could have been okay with this. At least he wouldn’t have been quite so outraged that Sherlock had somehow concluded that this was a sound idea. 

When Sherlock had brought up the scenario of  _The Doctor in the Boot_ , John had assumed that it would involve maybe an afternoon of light role-play, and maybe he’d get tied up and stuffed in the closet for a while. He never seriously considered that he’d end up getting in a knock-down drag out with two thugs who actually wanted to shove him in the boot of a car. _What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?_

It would be easy, sensible even, just to do as he was told, to put his hands behind his head and get down on his knees, but he was wired to fight. He was a soldier and there was no bloody way he was going to submit without a struggle. Dr. Bates hadn’t gone quietly and fuck it, neither would he. 

They attacked as one, and John put his fury on the back burner as he shifted seamlessly into the focused mindset for attack. He knew he could handle himself one on one, but the tag-team attack was swift and brutal. They didn’t move to strike him; John knew they were only looking for an opening to grab him and wrestle him to the ground, and that gave him an advantage because unlike them, he was going for blood. 

With the men bearing down on him, John’s only thought was defending himself, and fuck it he was swinging to knock someone out. He swung at the star on the man’s neck, aimed for it like a target, adrenaline slowing everything down. It was the way of fights, ten brutal seconds stretched out into infinity and when you came up for air, if you weren’t on the ground, you were the winner. John growled triumphant as his blow made contact with the man’s head, but his attacker barely staggered, and he recovered just as fast.

“Oh for fuck’s-”

John turned, a second too late, and took the full weight of the other man in the chest. He slammed down hard on the wet concrete, his frustrated cry cut short, the air crushed from his lungs. He was still gasping for breath when they hauled him to his feet. John thrashed in their hold, adrenaline fuelling his struggle. Thick fingers grabbed his hair and forced his head back as his arms were twisted behind him. Cold metal locked around his wrists. Sherlock stood in front of him now and, with his head held in place, John couldn’t see what Sherlock was holding in his hands.

“Christ, Sherlock! This is-”

The rest of John’s sentence, the important ‘not okay’ part of it, was cut short as Sherlock secured a length of gaffer tape over his mouth. John’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, trying to pull away as Sherlock pressed a second strip of tape in place. 

“Doctor, can you breathe?”

John screamed against the tape and lunged at Sherlock. He staggered as the men wrenched him back.

“Yes, it would seem so.” Sherlock pulled a scarf from his coat pocket. “We’re almost done, you’re doing fine.”

_It’s not like you gave me a bloody choice!_

John shut his eyes, cursing as Sherlock blindfolded him. He winced again, his hair caught in the tight knot and shook his head, already disorientated. He exhaled and steadied himself, trying to save his energy. Struggling was useless, there was nothing he could do right now, not with the handcuffs and the three-against-one odds. He had to wait it out, wait for an opening. He felt Sherlock’s hand against the side of his face, gentle, steady, reassuring and John wished that they were alone now, back in their flat, and that he was not being put through all of these fucking paces. Then the touch was gone.

“Put him in the boot.” 


	2. Chapter 2

John kept his head down and stayed quiet, still blindfolded and bound, still taped silent, unwillingly still in the game. They had pulled him from the boot, his ears ringing from the Ska assault. The cold and wet had shifted to cold and dry and he knew he was inside now, hustled down stairs and dragged through narrow hallways and then shoved out into an open space before being abandoned. A door slammed behind him and locked.

John stumbled forward, lost in the darkness. He breathed quickly through his nose, inhaling the heavy pine scent of disinfectant. _Where the hell am I?_ He stopped, steadying himself once more. Even now, he was somehow still calm. His outrage had been left behind in the stifling boot of the car. After an hour of growing dizzy and nauseated, he was just thankful to be out of the cramped space. He pushed down the frustration of being restrained and vulnerable and just listened. Above him came the buzz and pop of a flickering fluorescent light, and before him came footfalls on hard tile, moving towards him. John froze and braced himself. The person moved again, too close now, almost in his space. _Sherlock?_ He stepped back, doubt starting to settle in the pit of his stomach as he tried to figure out what the hell he would do if the person he was locked in with wasn’t Sherlock at all.

With that thought filling his head, John flinched back as a hand closed onto his face. It was Sherlock’s hand at least, he knew the touch, and relief washed over him, but he still pulled away from it. He was angry and tired, and this was the only way he could express his frustration. Sherlock touched his face once more and John retreated again. He shook his head, moaned a futile protest.

“Let me remove the blindfold at least.” Sherlock said.

John stopped. He would hold still for that, he was so desperate to be rid of the thing. He steadied himself, waiting for Sherlock to rip the blindfold from his face and take his hair with it, but Sherlock was gentle, and loosened the knot slowly before easing the scarf from his eyes. John squinted at his surroundings, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

He had imagined himself somewhere massive and cavernous but reality placed him in smaller confines. They stood in the remains of an old shower room. The only light flickered from the last surviving fixture above and cast strobing shadows across the tiled floor. The room was a shell of cracked and yellowing tile, recently scrubbed down, the pipes and shower heads had been ripped from the walls long ago. The most disturbing feature was a thick metal rung bolted into the centre of the floor. It was positioned before one of the remaining drains and John looked to Sherlock, unsure now.

“You might have to brace yourself for this, doctor. We’re far away enough so that no one will hear you scream, and I need you to be able to answer my questions.” Sherlock said reaching for John’s face again.

John stepped back, shaking his head. _Can’t we just fucking stop this already?_ There was no way he was letting Sherlock near the gaffer tape. Although Sherlock had managed to be gentle with the blindfold, John didn’t trust him with this, definitely not while Sherlock was still charging ahead in character. John had no idea who Sherlock was supposed to be. Bio-terrorist? Mercenary? John stumbled back into the wall and braced himself. He screamed against the tape, frustrated that Sherlock couldn’t see that he wanted this to end now. He shook his head, his eyes narrowed, furious.

“John.” Sherlock finally hesitated. “Are you alright?”

John stopped, snapped back by the sound of Sherlock speaking his name. Sherlock was speaking to _him_ now. John shook his head. _No, I’m not fucking alright!_ He turned his back to Sherlock and offered up his cuffed wrists and waited. He finally calmed when Sherlock relented and freed him. John kept his back turned as he pulled the tape from his face.

“What the hell was that?” Were the first words from his mouth. The tape stuck to his fingertips and he transferred it back and forth between his hands, trying to rid it from his fingers.

“I’ve abducted you.” Sherlock answered.

“I can see that!” John blinked at Sherlock, trying to sort out the most concise and straightforward way to explain to Sherlock why this was insane, why Sherlock should have given him a heads up, and why he should have been asked if he minded being attacked by skinheads. But after everything, all he could come up with was, “What the hell made you think that was a good idea?”

“I’m sorry John, I just- I thought that with your danger kink, this heightened realism would make all of this more… intense for you before we started.”

 _My danger what?_ John’s eyes went wide. “Yes. This was definitely intense. A bit like how _Reservoir Dogs_ was intense. You have no fucking concept of incremental steps, do you?”

Sherlock frowned. John sighed and closed his eyes.

“Do you want to- stop, then?” Sherlock asked him. He took a step back and studied John quietly. “Do you still want this?”

 _Do I want this?_ John kept his eyes closed. The strange thing was that he _did_ want this; maybe too much so and he didn’t know how he felt about that. He had been waiting for Sherlock to make a move since the moment the proposal had been made, but he never thought Sherlock would take things this far, this fast. He was scared that if he backed down now, Sherlock would see it as a door never to be opened again. John looked down at the metal rung in the floor, then back at Sherlock, at a loss for words.

“I-” John frowned. He looked everywhere else in the room except where Sherlock stood as he spoke. “I don’t want to do the- this Doctor in the Boot thing. I don’t want to have to do a crime scene reenactment or… pretend I’m-” John stopped again. This was harder than he thought and he had to fight the urge to cover his face with his hands. “I’m not good at pretending I’m someone else.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “If we don’t do this scenario, then who would I be?”

“Just- I don’t know. Just be yourself.” John said quietly, keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this suggestion for awhile, then nodded. “Alright.” The corner of his lip twitched up into a smile as he stepped closer.

John took a tentative step back. He looked at Sherlock for a cue, not sure how to start this again. He kept his arms at his sides, fighting the urge to wrap them around himself. It was strange that after everything he had endured that night, it was the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes that made his heart begin to race.

“I’m going to say this once.” Sherlock moved closer, and John tried to steady himself. Sherlock’s mouth was warm against his ear. “If I continue this, it will get increasingly difficult for you.”

It became harder to hear all of the words when Sherlock spoke to him. John hated this question. He wanted Sherlock to make the choice for him, but he knew that would never happen. He had to be the one to relinquish his control, it was the only way Sherlock would allow this to continue now. It was a simple yes or no, but for John it was like psyching himself up to jump off a cliff, or putting a loaded gun against his head.

“I won’t do anything to you that I believe you can’t handle. Although, I know you will feel otherwise,” Sherlock said, already shifting into his new role. “You will desperately want me to stop. And I won’t.”

John exhaled slowly, and told himself that he could get through this, whatever _this_ would be. He had to try, he had waited so long and this might be his only chance. He nodded once, and gave himself up completely to Sherlock’s control.

“What do I do now?” John asked. He looked to Sherlock.

“Take off your coat.”


	3. Chapter 3

John knelt on the cold tiled floor, stripped down to his pants. He was thankful that he had been allowed that bit of modesty. Starting out naked before Sherlock would have been too much all at once. His wrists were bound behind his back in leather cuffs and chained to the metal rung in the floor. Sherlock had used his own belt to bind John’s upper arms together and the tight loop forced John’s chest out and kept him exposed. 

He hated being locked like this, unable to recoil or to pull inward and away. Being bound like this brought old wounds back to life; he felt the tightness in the scar on his shoulder and the burn of the stretch, but he could bear it, like he would bear everything else. John spent the long minutes under the weight of Sherlock’s stare, testing his restraints and pulling on the chain, trying to feel his range of movement. There was about a foot and a half of chain between the cuffs and the floor and that length would keep him trapped on his knees. 

John couldn’t conjure up the focus that had come so easily to him before. There was an innate focus and calmness that came with the weight of a gun in his hand, or shifting into the middle of a fight, or diving headfirst into the unknown with Sherlock, his mind fixed on the task of keeping Sherlock alive. But this, he had no idea how to navigate this landscape and it scared the hell out of him. He needed someone to move beside him in this space, to lead him through it, while stopping every so often to push him onto a land mine.

He shivered and sat back on his heels, trying to ease the pull on his shoulders and the pain in his knees. They would be bruised by the end of this night. He would have mementos of the flesh to remind him of his first time with Sherlock. Because this  _was_ their first time. John was floored that it was actually happening. The morning, weeks ago, that John spent tied up in his bedroom had been an awkward start, but this, this was consummation. John’s stomach began to twist into knots and it became harder to breathe. He pulled against the chain, as the inevitability of it all began to sink in.

“Breathe, John.” Sherlock said.

John exhaled and closed his eyes and tried to resign himself for the tenth time to the fact that he had to endure it now, that this was out of his authority, and that this would only be over when Sherlock determined it so. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth slowly, until he gained control of his breath and his heart, and managed to settle again. 

“Why are you doing this?” He asked Sherlock. He frowned at his question, worried that his words sounded like a plea to stop, and he didn’t want that. He had no idea what Sherlock’s answer would be, and he didn’t know if something like that should be left unasked. He looked at Sherlock and waited, trying not to focus on the black leather satchel that lay at Sherlock’s side. He didn’t want to know what was inside of it. So he asked him the question instead.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the tile before John, his wool coat folded beneath him. He pulled the satchel onto his lap and played with the buckle as he spoke. “I’ve been a bit careless with you. I always believe I know how you will react to the things I do to you. Yet there’s always something I seem to miss.” Sherlock stopped and studied John for awhile. “I don’t want to be wrong in this. I find it- I know this is important to you.” 

John nodded, not sure what to make of the answer given. He was surprised that Sherlock had given it that much thought and that much weight. It was not what he had expected the answer to be. 

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked. 

John shook his head. He was in no way ready. 

He held his breath as Sherlock laid the contents of the satchel in the space between them. First came the things that would restrain him, a thick silicone bit and a roll of gaffer tape. _God,_ he thought, _not again_. Then came the things that would torture him, a thin rubber cock ring, a pair of nipple clamps linked onto a long chain, and his heart dropped when Sherlock removed the cursed plug that he been had been tortured with once before. _Bloody hell._ He hated that thing.

John had hated every fucking minute the first time Sherlock had kept the plug inside of him, but then he had spent the rest of the week fantasising about little else. He felt the colour rising in his face as he scanned the objects and wondered what each would feel like, what  _all_ of it would feel like when it was on him, and around him, and inside of him, and despite his apprehension and growing dread of having to bear it all, he couldn’t help but start to become aroused. 

“It seems my choice of equipment is already having the desired effect.” Sherlock said. “I’d best get this on you before you get too excited.” Sherlock picked up the cock ring. He reached forward and grabbed John’s thigh. “Hold still now.” 

Sherlock worked in silence. He shifted John forward and tugged his pants down around his thighs. John tried not to squirm under Sherlock’s assault, too mortified to protest. Sherlock rubbed his lubed hand over John’s cock and balls and John licked his lips and looked away. 

“Have you worn one of these before?”

John shook his head quickly. 

“Then it should be quite an experience. It just slips around at the base of your cock right here, behind your tes-” 

“I know where it goes!” John yelled as Sherlock fitted him with the ring, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was responding so quickly to Sherlock’s touch. It was bad enough without the commentary, and Sherlock seemed like he was enjoying himself too much. John looked down at his erection, embarrassed and helplessly aroused. 

“You said you’d never worn one before.” Sherlock pulled John’s pants back up over his hips, covering him again. John held his tongue, refusing to be goaded into a response.

“You know what’s next, don’t you?” 

John shook his head and refused to answer the question. His erection strained against his underwear, and he shuddered, his face growing even hotter. He cursed himself, hating that even now, all he could do was blush like a damn school boy. 

Sherlock held up the bit and the gaffer tape. 

“Why do you make me do this?” John’s voice cracked on the question.

“Because it makes you horribly uncomfortable.” Sherlock placed the bit and the tape before John. “And because I want to see if I’m right. Now choose.” 

John eyes widened. “If you’re right? You seriously think I have a preference?” 

“Oh, I know you do.” Sherlock pointed to the bit. “Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” 

John blushed and nodded, reluctantly. 

“Of course.” Sherlock grinned. “I was right.”

“It’s not a bloody choice, when gaffer tape is always option two!”

John clenched his teeth as Sherlock picked up the bit. He locked his jaw and shifted back, but there was nowhere to go. His fingers searched the length of the chain until he reached the padlock and the rung .

“Isn’t that supposed to be- smaller?” John said through his clenched teeth. The bit looked hard and was thick enough that it would keep his mouth wedged open wide. Steel O-rings linked the bit to the leather straps that would keep it locked inside his mouth, and he knew it would hurt.

“I had this one made especially for you.” Sherlock answered. “I know you like to be gagged properly.”

John blushed, stunned into silence by Sherlock’s bluntness.  _Who the hell says that? What the fuck does that even mean?_ He wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or horrified, or if Sherlock was taking the mick out of him. He shook his head. “I- I don’t. Sherlock no-”

John struggled as his head was pulled back. He glared up at Sherlock, inhaling fast and hard through his teeth. His eyes flashed bright in silent challenge and he shook his head again. This time Sherlock would have to work harder for it. This time round, he wasn’t just going to relent and let Sherlock gag him. 

Finally, Sherlock sighed and lowered the bit. He stared at John and waited. 

“Alright, John. Since you’re not going to let me put this in your mouth right now, there’s something else that was suggested that I might try with you.” Sherlock said. “Will you do this for me?”

It took a few moments for John to realise that there was a question attached to the end of Sherlock’s sentence. He wasn’t sure why, after all of this, Sherlock felt that he needed to ask his permission for anything. It was strange that Sherlock had chosen the word _suggested_ , but the quietness of the question seemed even stranger. What was he agreeing to? Allowing himself to be burned alive? Letting Sherlock leave him in this cold place? He had no idea, but he nodded anyway, and then Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.

It was brief and oddly chaste, tasted faintly of cigarettes, and over much too quickly. John stared, wide-eyed at Sherlock and wondered what the hell had just happened. Sherlock sat back on his heels, pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, and slipped into thought. And as John’s mind spun a little out of control, Sherlock pulled himself back up from his own reverie and kissed him again.

John had never been kissed by a man before, and he never really expected that he would be. Sherlock kissed like maybe a boy would, tentative and soft, pulling back to regard him and then leaning in to kiss him again. John was used to taking the lead and he wanted to press forward, to show Sherlock how it would be good to kiss maybe harder, to bite even, to take him by the tongue, but he feared that if he moved at all, Sherlock would come to his senses and stop. So he yielded to the kiss, to the taste of Sherlock, to the tongue that sought out his own, and John decided then that if this was all there was to be tonight, then it would be enough. John opened his eyes as Sherlock pulled back. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispered, breathless. He placed a quick kiss on John’s forehead and then forced the bit between John’s teeth.

John groaned as the bit filled his mouth, still overwhelmed and confused by the kiss, and the taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue. He fought to get his teeth around the bit as Sherlock pulled the straps tight and buckled it firmly in place.

John shook his head and tried to work the bit forward, to stop the ache that already started at the corners of his mouth. He glared at Sherlock and tried to voice his discomfort, but his words were lost. He hated the muffled sounds that he made now. John shut his eyes tight.  _You fucking had this made for me?_

“You can manage it, John.” Sherlock told him.

John shook his head, moaning in protest. Sherlock took him in for a moment, and then acquiesced.

“Alright, open your mouth wide.” Sherlock said. “Wider.”

John did as he was told and Sherlock gripped the O-rings and tugged the bit forward.

“Bite down, now.”

John obeyed again, he dug his teeth into the bit and held it in place. It still filled him, and if he screamed or opened his mouth too wide it would slip back, but for now, as long as he kept his teeth clenched around it, he could control how much pain he would endure. 

“You’re doing rather well with all of this.” 

John sighed. He was surprised and softened by the words, suddenly aware that he needed them. He leaned forward, until his forehead came to rest against Sherlock’s chest and he wondered if Sherlock was being gentler now, trying to make up for everything that had happened at the start of this bizarre night. He exhaled slowly, already so tired, and he hoped that perhaps they could just stay like this for awhile longer so he could catch up.  _Why the hell did you kiss me?_ His eyes slipped closed as Sherlock’s fingers tangled through his hair and they remained in that moment until he calmed again. 

He protested softly when Sherlock eased him back, not ready to disconnect and start again. John sat back on his heels, feeling more vulnerable now that the bit was in place. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth into the silicone and it was almost impossible to swallow. He could feel the thin trails of saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth and onto his chest and he was mortified at how he must look, unable to control his own body.

“Has anyone ever used something like this on you before?” Sherlock picked up the nipple clamps. John shook his head and his breath quickened again. He quite liked it when his girlfriends had kissed and bit at his nipples, but he’d never thought about doing something like this.  _This will hurt like hell._ John shuddered at the thought of metal closing onto him.

“This particular clamp is quite cruel.” Sherlock grinned and held the steel clamp close to John’s face for better viewing. “I was told that it’s not recommended for beginners. But I thought, how bad could it really be?”

John narrowed his eyes as he took in the device. They looked like tiny pliers to him, hooked onto a chain. The jaws of the clamp were lined with rubber, but it seemed like it would do little to ease the sting of the bite.  _How am I not a beginner?_

“It’s called a clover clamp, or a butterfly clamp. I suppose it looks a bit like a clover, not sure where they came up with butterfly though, doesn’t really look like a butterfly, does it.” Sherlock continued his rapid pace. “This part here, grips onto your nipple.” Sherlock closed the clamp onto his forefinger and let go, and the metal jaws clung tight around his fingertip, the chain swayed back and forth like a pendulum. 

“The wonderful thing about this, is that if you pull on the chain, the grip gets increasingly tighter.” Sherlock tugged on the chain, smiling as his fingertip turned red, squeezed between the jaws. “So each time you move or gasp or shudder, the pressure will get a little bit more unbearable. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it? Let’s give them a try.” 

Sherlock closed his fingers onto John’s nipple and John strained back, struggling away from the sudden assault. With his bound arms forcing his chest forward, his nipples were at the mercy of Sherlock’s fingers and teeth and tongue, and Sherlock teased him with all three, biting and tugging until John’s nipples grew painfully erect and sore under the assault. The heady mix of pain and pleasure brought him dangerously close to release. 

John groaned against the bit when Sherlock abruptly pulled back, his nipples red and tender and at attention. Sherlock closed the first clamp slowly onto the base of John’s nipple and John bit back the scream that was building inside of him. The pressure started out delicious at first, and then became sharp and stinging as the clamp closed tight around his tender skin. John fought to hold himself still as Sherlock closed the second clamp into place.

This new sensation was almost too much to bear. The clamps pinched tight, and each twitch and gasp felt as if Sherlock’s teeth were still biting down onto him. The chain between the clamps hung in a low arc across John’s chest and tugged painfully at the slightest movement. John held his breath and fought to keep himself from shuddering, the confusion of pain and arousal driving him mad. Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, but it did little to help calm him this time.

“Breathe, John.” Sherlock said and John’s sudden gasp turned into a stifled cry as his breath sent the horrid chain pulling once more. 

“Try to relax now. We’ve done this once before.” Sherlock unlocked the chain that secured John’s cuffs to the floor and shifted John forward, away from the rung. He closed his hand onto the back of John’s neck and guided John’s head slowly forward and down to the tile. 

If the bit hadn’t been in his mouth, John might have argued Sherlock’s use of the word ‘we’, but instead he kept his eyes closed and tried to quiet himself. The weight of Sherlock’s hand on his neck helped him; it was steady and constant and Sherlock waited out the minutes until John’s breathing slowed, before he pulled his hand away. John’s focus shifted between the distracting sting of the clamps biting into his sore nipples and trying to prepare himself for Sherlock’s next inevitable assault. He knew what was coming. First the fingers and then the plug. It had been traumatic the first time Sherlock had forced him to endure it, but it was a known entity now, and John hoped that this time it would be easier. 

He still cried out when Sherlock’s slick fingers entered him, though more from the built up panic and the fact that Sherlock had started without warning, than from any pain. Sherlock worked him gently, first one finger, then two, applying more lube before stretching him even wider. When the hard, smooth tip of the plug pushed inside of him, his whole body trembled. John relaxed the best he could, despite the growing ache in his nipples and his cock, thankful for the first time that he had something to bite down on. 

It had been easier this time, maybe, a little. John knew what was expected of his body and what the plug entering him would feel like. He knew that he could bear it. He managed to relax enough that parts of the process actually felt kind of good. He kept his forehead against the floor, afraid to move. Despite the indignity of being head down with his arse in the air, John had settled enough so that he was almost still again, but he knew that if he shifted even a bit, all of the pain and maddening pleasure would come rushing back at once.

“You know you can’t stay like that.” Sherlock stood and latched his fingers around the O-ring at the side of John’s bit and pulled him up onto his knees.

The firm grip on his bit kept John’s head tilted back and his body held against Sherlock’s side. John squirmed in Sherlock’s hold, forced to stare up at him, unable to pull away. The plug edged against his prostate and each twitch and sudden breath sent waves of building pleasure through him. Each shudder pinched the clamps tighter, torturing his nipples, and the mix of sensations washed through his body and down to his aching cock. Then it all started again. John breathed hard through his nose, lost in this perpetual loop. He struggled to stay focused, each wave driving him more and more desperate. John reached back, his fingers searching for the rung in the floor, for something solid to hold onto. 

If Sherlock turned the plug on, it would end him. John was sure of it. There was no way he could handle all of this at once, not with the clamps and not with the cock ring that made him harder than he had ever been. He was already reeling and Sherlock hadn’t even started yet.  _You are going to kill me. There’s no fucking way I can do this._ John groaned against the gag, shook his head, begged for Sherlock to stop. He strained against his restraints, pleading for a few more moments, pleading for Sherlock to slow down. 

He flinched as Sherlock reached down and wiped the drool from his chin, so lost and overwhelmed that he didn’t register Sherlock’s hand until it was against his face.  _Just wait, Please…_

“Tonight, I’m going to teach you about patience.” Sherlock said. “I know you don’t want to learn it, but we’re going to go through the lessons, because I think you’re looking to be taken apart.”

The plug buzzed to life inside of him, quickly at first and John flinched hard and dug his teeth into the bit. Sherlock lowered the intensity until it just barely brushed against John’s prostate. It was more like a nagging, impossible itch that could never be scratched and John moved his hips shamelessly, desperate to shift the plug inside of him. He didn’t care if it moved deeper or further away, he just needed to be anywhere but the infuriating edge of pleasure that he was balanced on.

Sherlock released his grip on John’s bit and moved behind him. John could do nothing but struggle and protest as Sherlock pulled him down onto his lap and held him tight. He groaned as Sherlock’s hand reached around and closed around his cock, the fingers stroked him far too slowly as the pleasure began to build. John writhed under Sherlock’s assault, he pleaded for Sherlock to stroke him harder, faster. _Please. Oh God, please._ He pumped his hips, no longer caring if he seemed wanton or shameless, he just needed so badly to come. He arched his back, straining against Sherlock, his orgasm starting to peak. He was so close now, so deliciously close and then Sherlock switched off the plug and pulled his hand away from John’s cock, denying all sensation. John screamed as Sherlock tugged hard on the chain stretched between between his nipples, the sharp pain ripping him back from the precipice.

John gasped for breath, red-faced and dizzy, his erection painfully hard. The bit slipped back against the corners of his mouth and he grunted against the silicone, unable to dig his teeth into it and work it forward again. Tears of frustration slipped down his face as his jaw began to ache once more.

“This is about patience, John. I’m not going to let you come for quite some time. This is your first lesson. How does it feel?”

_I fucking hate you._

John lost it then. He thrashed, trapped in Sherlock’s embrace. Despite the bit in his mouth, he rained down every curse he could think of until he was out of breath. He tried to pull away, so frustrated and so furious, but Sherlock would not let him go and John was reduced to nothing more than a petulant, squirming child held on Sherlock’s lap. He raged until he wore himself out, and then collapsed back against Sherlock’s chest, gasping in defeat. And when his breathing finally calmed, and his heart slowed once more, and his head began to clear, Sherlock pressed the remote and the plug started up inside of John again. 

“Alright, let’s do this again.” 

_Please, I cant…_

John cried out in despair, fighting to pull away, hopelessly trapped. He shifted his hips, trying to move the plug deeper inside of him, the slow vibration tormenting him mercilessly. It was not enough, not nearly enough. It would never fucking be enough. He whined against the bit as Sherlock applied even more lube to his hands and went at him again. Sherlock closed his hand around John’s erection and pulled at him slowly, stroking his cock from base to tip, always upwards, the pleasure building and stopping each time his fingers reached the tip of John’s erection.  _Please let me…_ John moaned with each teasing pull, rocking his hips with the infuriating strokes, struggling to go faster. He could feel his orgasm peaking again, and this time he just had to…  _Please, let me this time._ John closed his eyes, dizzy with the building pressure and then Sherlock’s hand slowed and stopped, still wrapped around John’s cock. John thrust himself against Sherlock’s fingers, shamelessly fucking Sherlock’s hand, desperate for release. He screamed in frustration as the plug went dead inside of him and Sherlock pulled his hand away. 

“Patience, John.” Sherlock steadied John’s hips and held him still. “Just breathe.” 

John thrashed, so violently that he almost tumbled from Sherlock’s hold. _ I don’t want to fucking breathe! _ He sobbed as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him and reeled him back in again. John dropped his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, gasping for breath.

“Once you’ve calmed yourself. We’ll do this again. One more time. Certainly you can manage that.”

John shook his head. There was no way he could manage it. He ached for Sherlock to move his hands lower, to touch him just one more time. Just one more time. 

“I’m going to remove this now,” Sherlock closed his hand onto John’s bit, “but if you say one word I’ll silence you again. Do you understand?”

John nodded, desperate to get the bit out of his mouth. He held still as Sherlock unbuckled the clasp and eased the bit from between his teeth. John moved his jaw slowly, wincing at the ache as he closed his teeth together. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, filling his lungs and trying in vain to calm once more. 

“You have to really try this time.” Sherlock said. He spoke the command against the back of John’s neck and John felt the words push through his skin. “I  _will_ let you come when I think you’ve worked hard enough for it.” 

John bit his lip to keep from speaking. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be trying to do. Wasn’t enduring enough? He was so hard and aching that the moment Sherlock’s hands were on him, and the plug was switched on again, he would lose his mind. 

“Sherlock, please-” 

Sherlock’s hand slammed over John’s mouth, cutting off his plea, and the force of it wrenched John’s head back. John shook his head, trying in vain to escape the smothering hand. He groaned, inhaling quickly through his nose, making himself dizzy. 

“What did I say about speaking?” Sherlock said. “Were you even listening to me?”

John tried to nod, struggling to move his head. 

“If you’re ready to disobey me, then I suppose you’re ready enough to begin again.” Sherlock switched on the plug once more. 

_No, I didn’t mean-_ John’s words were lost against Sherlock’s fingers. With his head wrenched back, John stared up at the cracks across the ceiling. The lines began to blur and bleed together as he blinked back his tears.

John arched his back, the plug driving deep inside of him again as Sherlock stroked him with one hand and silenced him with the other. John reached his fingers wide, pulled against the cuffs, trying to keep still, trying not to come. How many times did he have to have Sherlock’s hand down the front of his pants, and how many times did Sherlock have to make him come before they were more than just what they were? John tried to distract himself with the calculations for that one, but with Sherlock’s fingers around his cock John could barely remember how he’d ended up here. He moaned against Sherlock, his mouth half open now. His tongue flicked against Sherlock’s hand, tasting his fingertips, trying hard not to bite. He fought to keep still, to just stay on Sherlock’s lap. John reached back and grabbed Sherlock’s leg. He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s thigh, trying to anchor himself. 

Sherlock flinched under John’s hand. He stopped his assault and gripped John’s wrist.

“If you grab me again, I’ll bind your fingers together.” Sherlock hissed. “Do you want that?”

John shook his head. He closed his hands into fists and shook his head once more. He tried not to imagine Sherlock forcing his hands together, lacing the rough leather cord around his fingers until they were wrapped so tight that he couldn’t pull them apart. The image sent a shudder through him and into his painfully hard cock, and when Sherlock began to stroke him again, it took barely a second for John to tumble over the edge of his orgasm, driven there by the threat of further bondage alone. Sherlock stopped the plug and his tormenting hands, squeezing down tight on the base of John’s cock to try to stifle his release but it was too late. 

Sherlock pulled the clamps, snapping them from John’s chest as he climaxed, and the searing pain of the blood rushing back into John’s nipples ripped a scream from his throat. John sobbed against Sherlock’s hand as he came on a blinding wave of pain, and when he had emptied his semen onto his stomach and onto Sherlock’s fingers, he was neither sated nor satisfied. John twitched through his ruined orgasm, held tight in Sherlock’s arms, stomach aching, still painfully aroused. 

Sherlock frowned at the turn of events. “Did I say we were finished?”

John shook his head, gasping and incoherent.

“You’re going to have to pay for that, you know.” Sherlock said.

John nodded, too exhausted to do anything else.


	4. Chapter 4

John curled up on his side and shivered against the cold tile, his head resting on Sherlock’s lap. When he had been told that he would be punished, John had resigned himself to the fact that he would be tormented and denied until he became wrecked. But instead, Sherlock had just stopped and looked at him and said, “It’s enough.”

The bit lay discarded by Sherlock’s knee and John stared at it through half-closed eyes. After what seemed like hours of digging his teeth into the thing, there wasn’t a single mark on the silicone. A part of him wished that it was still in his mouth because the last thing he wanted to do was have to speak, or string sentences together, or answer Sherlock’s questions. 

John’s wrists were still bound behind his back, though his upper arms had mercifully been released. The cock ring was no longer around him, but Sherlock had kept the plug in place. It still filled him and sent shivers of pleasure through his aching body when he shifted and moved. John wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, it seemed a bit like forever, like he was in some in-between place with Sherlock, and he wondered when the time would come when they would have to step back into reality. 

Sherlock was on his third cigarette. John kept his eyes closed and counted each time he heard a match being struck. He listened as Sherlock inhaled deep, trapping the smoke inside his chest, then exhaled for what seemed like forever. In the drawn out spaces between cigarettes, Sherlock’s fingers explored the lines of John’s face and traced patterns through his hair. When the tears sometimes came, Sherlock collected them on his fingers and painted them across John’s lips.

Half-asleep, John startled when Sherlock shifted from underneath him. He didn’t have the strength to struggle when Sherlock pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him. Sherlock straddled John’s thighs, pinning him against the ground. John writhed beneath him, coming to his senses once more, his arms trapped behind his back and his chest presented in reluctant offering. With Sherlock’s full weight on his thighs, John could no longer shift his hips or move his legs. He was trapped, more vulnerable now than he’d ever been. 

“What are you doing?” John asked. 

“I’ve been thinking about you.” Sherlock said.

John stared up at Sherlock, still a bit dizzy, his heart starting to race again. He averted his eyes, not ready to be back under Sherlock’s scrutiny. He wanted Sherlock to be the one to look away, to stop staring and dissecting for once, to stop taking every part of him in. Every twitch and moan and blush and intake of breath that he made was being noted and catalogued and remembered. John imagined a version of himself, tied up and locked away in Sherlock’s mind palace, perpetually teased and tortured, and the thought of it sent a shudder through his body, this time stirring his cock and edging the plug deeper inside. John shut his eyes, aroused and conflicted and strangely jealous of his other incarnation. 

“We’ll have to explore this complete movement restriction more thoroughly next time. It affects you quite profoundly. I think if I put the bit back in your mouth, it might send you over the edge.”

John frowned, frustrated that Sherlock spoke the truth and that just the thought of that scenario started to arouse him. He hoped that would be the end of Sherlock’s observations. The last thing he wanted was to be reduced to theory and speculation right now. He didn’t want to have to think about all of the strange things that turned him on so desperately. He didn’t want to think about any of it. So instead of shutting up like he knew he should, he challenged. “You think you have everything about me figured out, don’t you?” 

Sherlock nodded. He looked certain, as though John were an open book.

“Is that right? After one time? You have me sorted out?” John pushed again.

“After tonight, yes.” Sherlock nodded and gazed up at the low ceiling. John could almost see the connections sparking and firing up behind Sherlock’s eyes. It was at that moment John realised that perhaps this line of inquiry would not end well. Then the words came.

“You have no idea what your limits are and you need to test them. You want  _me_ to test them, to see how much you can mentally and physically endure, even if it hurts you. You have a profound need to experience situations in which you feel fear and danger and completely out of control. You  _need_ to lose control, and yet that scares you, so you also need to be reigned in. Thus your desire, your need, to be restrained. But you’re not one to go down without a fight, because you’re not just a man, you’re a soldier. In order to submit, you need for your control to be physically ripped from you and you need to fight for it. It’s the fighting and being overwhelmed that stimulates you, because you think that if you just gave yourself over to be dominated that it would emasculate you.”

“Enough.” John whispered. 

“You crave complete and total restraint. You have to understand, to know that you can not escape your bondage, and that both calms and arouses you; being forced to resign yourself, having to accept that you can not stop what comes next. You desire to be forcefully gagged, it arouses you more than being bound, though you will never admit it. The moment you saw the bit, your pupils dilated and your heart began to race. Your breath quickened, and you felt embarrassed because you wanted to have something pushed between your teeth to take away your ability to speak, to protest; to tell me “no, I won’t do this anymore,” because ultimately you don’t want me to stop. Because you fear that I’m all that you have and you think that if you tell me to stop then you will never find anyone else to fill that need. And everything you waited so long to finally experience will end.” 

“Stop it, Sherlock.” John’s voice shook as he spoke. 

“You need to be taken to a point where you think that you will break and then pushed past it. A session won’t be complete for you unless you are reduced to tears. And I’ve done that for you tonight. Twice. Because ultimately you feel like you should be punished for wanting to submit, and that you have to suffer for it-”

“Christ! Just stop it!” John finally screamed, unable to take anymore of it in, trying to drown out Sherlock’s words with his own.

And there it was. _My God._ All of the things that John didn’t want to admit about himself strung together like a bloody laundry list. It was like standing in front of a fucking supernova, being mentally taken apart by Sherlock and John hated him for putting voice to all of the things he didn’t want exposed to the light. And so he began to doubt, everything. _Why the hell am I doing this?_

John writhed beneath Sherlock, frustrated and tired and trying to push down all of the words that Sherlock had shoved into his head. He thrashed until his shoulders ached and his arms were scraped and bruised. He yelled at Sherlock to stop it now, to just let him up, to untie him, to end this. He struggled until Sherlock leaned forward and pushed his shoulders back against the floor. 

“You can’t just do that!” John raged. “You can’t just put it all out there like that.” He slammed his head back and regretted it the moment his head cracked hard against the floor and the pinpoints of light strobed across his vision. “Christ-”

“Stop talking, John.” 

Sherlock’s hand closed over John’s mouth, not rough this time, but forceful enough to silence him and, despite his anger and frustration, John shuddered. The wave of arousal started deep in his chest and rushed down to his cock.  _I shouldn’t want this so badly._

“Fighting is good John, thrash against me all you want. But this-” John gave a muffled cry as Sherlock thumped him in the forehead, “this mental unravelling that you’re doing is pointless because you’re wrong,” Sherlock said, “about so many things. This is innate with you, it’s instinct. You’ve been waiting half your life for what we’ve started. And I, I don’t want it to stop either.” 

Sherlock reached into his back pocket and produced the remote. John whimpered against Sherlock’s hand. He tried to shake his head, not ready to start this all again. _God, I shouldn’t want this._ It was harder, though, to listen to all of the words in his head with the weight of Sherlock’s hand over his mouth and his body bound so tightly, everything wound up with the arousal that it caused in him. The warmth spread through his stomach and down into his cock and, beneath Sherlock’s hand, the colour rose in John’s face once more.

“I’m going to take my hand away and you will not speak. Not one word. Do you understand? You need something to keep your mind busy. You’re exhausted right now, rightfully so as I’ve been tormenting you all night. So all you need to focus on is doing what I tell you to do. If you close your eyes, or if I see you thinking too much, I will distract you until you are out of your mind. Nod if you understand.”

John nodded once, inhaling quickly through his nose. Sherlock’s words pushed into him even as they drove him mad with arousal. The slow and steady command, the calm force behind the words. John focused on those words, he closed his eyes and listened.

A sharp thump on his forehead forced John’s eyes open again. He frowned, and cursed himself for failing within ten seconds of Sherlock’s first command. _Don’t close your eyes._

“I punished you tonight, John. I brought you to tears, and I made you suffer. But it was  _never _ because I thought you deserved it. You do know that, don’t you?”

As Sherlock pulled his hand away, John’s head strained up, following it to place a kiss on Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock let his hand linger for a moment, allowing the connection. The small act overwhelmed John, suddenly self-conscious of what he had done. Bound so tightly, it was the only gesture that he could possibly give. It had just seemed right in that moment; that in this cold, dark space, he could give himself over to Sherlock and feel safe. Perhaps he had kissed Sherlock’s hand simply for that reason. 

“Not one sound.” Sherlock said and pressed the remote.

John wished it had been any other command. This one was impossible, Sherlock knew it was. John had never thought of himself as being loud during sex, but then no one had ever tortured him quite the way Sherlock did. John clenched his teeth as the vibration set in again, slight at first, distracting and not quite touching the sweet spot deep inside of him. He held his breath. If he could just hold himself still, if he could somehow ignore the growing pleasure and throbbing in his cock, maybe he could keep quiet. 

“Ah, this isn’t nearly difficult enough for you.” Sherlock jammed his thumb on the remote a few more times and the plug buzzed hard and fast inside John. The sudden shift in speed pushed the plug against his prostate and John screamed. 

“Holy fuck!” John bit his lip and shut his eyes until the hard tap against his forehead reminded him once again. _Shut your mouth, open your eyes._ Two simple commands and he couldn’t seem to follow either of them successfully.

“For a soldier you’re terrible at following orders.” 

John stared up at Sherlock, gasping. He  _was_ trying, he was trying as hard as he could. But it was like being asked to breathe underwater.  _Keep your mouth shut, open your eyes._

“Can you do this for me? If you can stay quiet a little longer then I’ll let you come. But if you moan, if you scream, if one word comes out of that mouth of yours…”

_Oh God, I’m trying._ John bit down on his lip again, this time tasting blood.

Sherlock closed his hand around John’s cock and John struggled in vain to raise his hips to meet the touch. He seemed to have lost all concept of shame or dignity. None of those things mattered anymore. All that mattered, and all that he knew, was want.

John strained and gasped as Sherlock played him so deftly. One hand stroked his cock, the other cupped and kneaded his balls. Then Sherlock’s long fingers moved down, stroking John beneath his scrotum and then daring even lower and  _Jesus Christ_ , he’d never been touched quite like that before, and John just gave up trying to be silent and screamed Sherlock’s name. With the plug raging inside of him and Sherlock molesting him so beautifully, John didn’t care if he lasted two minutes or twelve seconds, he’d take whatever punishment Sherlock could think of for screaming out of turn. He could learn silence and obedience another fucking time because he couldn’t… he just couldn’t.

Then Sherlock’s mouth was against John’s neck, teeth scraping across his throat even as John ached for Sherlock’s mouth covering his own. He could be quiet for that, he could force himself silent, somehow, just for that. But there wasn’t time.

When John’s climax finally quaked through his bound body, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face against his neck. It was as if the weight of Sherlock was the only thing that held him to this earth, and the only thing that anchored him to this place. John was almost certain that without Sherlock’s arms around him he would simply shatter and be lost entirely to the world .

After a time, and with Sherlock’s embrace to ground him and guide him home, John drifted back down and inhabited his skin again. He didn’t know if he was even still here, or still alive, or if this was some sort of fever dream until he shuddered and Sherlock drew him in closer.

“Breathe, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to the very best betas in the entire world: [duh_i_read](http://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/pseuds/duh_i_read) who made me do it over, [lady_t_220](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220) who made me do it right, and [thisprettywren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren) who made me do the details... 
> 
> Thank you for reading this!  
> Please drop me a note if the mood takes you! :-)  
> xoxo


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